


A Ballad for Octavia

by CherubimPrince



Category: Elder Scrolls
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 00:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20434652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CherubimPrince/pseuds/CherubimPrince
Summary: Octavia’s life in snapshots.Her father towers above her.Her husband is none the wiser.





	1. Etude Opus 25 No. 11

Octavia grinned as she felt the dip in her bed, and the weight of another person slide in next to her. She could hear the eagerness in his breaths, never mind what she felt rub against her back as he pressed himself against her.

She chuckled, then shifted herself against him, sure to rub her backside against his crotch, before resettling on her stomach, still facing away from him. “I’m exhausted, Erandure,” she sighed, her voice deep and raspier as she said, “maybe another night.”  
You could hear the smirk on her face.

But the man laying against her was undeterred. He snakes one hand slowly around her waist, pulling himself closer. He slid one hand further down her back to grasp her ass, his grip tightening and loosening, kneading her.

She adjusted her hips again, moving them side to side in a slow manner, before pulling one leg out to create a gap between them. 

Another hand moved the inky black mass of Octavia’s hair to the other side of her body, allowing the man better access to her neck, which he kissed rather gently at first, adding more desperation with each one.

Octavia pushed slightly away, but the man, his grip tight and firm on her pulled her violently back towards her. His grip lowered, first moving to rub patterns on her thighs. 

“Darling...” She chuckled again, trying and failing to move her leg out of his iron grip. The hand travelled further up her thigh and the sloppy kisses against her neck became more frantic, accompanied by nibbles as he sucked against her flesh. 

“Hon,” concern in her voice more present, “I’m serious. Stop.” She felt his hand creep higher until finally he rubbed a knuckle against her sex. “Erandure!” She tried to yank herself out of his grasp but before she could get free he wrapped one cold hand around her throat as two fingers curled into her. 

“You’re a fucking tease,” the voice was Erandure’s, playful and melodic as though this were just another one of their games, but something was off. The words icy and sharp where Erandure’s sounded warm and affectionate in a time like this. 

His hand against her throat tightened, another finger pressed into her as he began to push in and out of her. Her legs felt paralyzed, impossibly heavy and numb, when she tried to pull them shut.

“You seemed so eager earlier, rubbing against me, contradicting your words with that whorish smirk- don’t think I didn’t notice,” his words seemed to echo, a metallic sound that felt like a knife through her back. 

His fingers pumped violently now, rocking her up and down against him in a steady rhythm. “What a bitch you are, this is the kind of thing you enjoy isn’t it? Yes, you’re the kind of slut-faced slag who seeks out this thrill,” his voice twisted, then, to something else entirely. And yet, as she was delirious from lack of oxygen, too distracted and shocked by the scene at hand, she couldn’t discern the difference in pitch and tone from that of her husband’s.

Octavia felt something shift on her throat and between her legs, his grip colder, tighter and tighter against her throat. The fingers working her sex grew longer, thinner too, and another one pushed in to accommodate for it.

Octavia yelped as his efforts became more forceful, she could hardly breathe as she felt nails, long and sharp, scratching at the wet walls inside her. Still, she couldn’t move, and she tried to scream but hardly any air was passing through her throat. She couldn’t make a sound. 

Finally, in a cacophony of sensations the hand ripped out of her cunt and away from her throat. She gasped, it felt like sandpaper, and she choked on air as she coughed. It stung. 

Her eyes were shut as tears pricked in her eyes, she was forced onto her back, buttons of her nightdress ripped off as the bottom was hiked up above her waistline. “Stop!” She managed to wheeze out, though it hurt her like hell, “get the fuck off me, Erandure...” her voice trailed off a she ran out of breath. 

Tears ran down her cheeks, her face contorted in a look of disdain at her sign of weakness. Sweat slicked her skin, some rolling into her eyes and burning them as she squeezed them shut. 

She gasped as she felt it, she couldn’t breath and the world went silent around her. She gasped, a quiet whimper escaped her lips before it all came tumbling down on her like a pile of bricks. 

Erandure rammed into her, bobbing her up and down as she was pressed deeper into the pillows. Visions clouded her mind, one of her as a child in Cyrodil, a mob of unforgiving worshipers as they swarmed around their rejected poppet of their efforts and salvation. An omen of death, a prophet of neglect and calamity. She could feel their hard smacks, the welts forming on her tender, young flesh as they gathered to beat out their sentence of ill kismet. 

His pace quickened and Octavia felt something cold and smooth against her neck, a chain. She felt it around her limbs too. The silk chaffed against her backside as she was rubbed deeper and harder into the sheets. 

She remembered then, the feeling of sand and shells, a sensation of both soft and sharp against her hands and knees as they bled. She was pressed deeper into the sand as her hair whipped around her face. She rocked back and forth, a savage bosmer chief pounded into her from behind, each thrust deepened the promise of an army of war hungry soldiers at her feet. So she pressed her face deeper into the sand and shells, if this is what it took, so be it.

A cry escaped her throat again, she choked on her saliva as she whimpered and it angered her more. Rough, bony hands grabbed violently at her tits. Pinching and pulling at her nipples unforgivably. She cracked her eyes open and though it felt off, his face gaunt and smile vicious, she saw only the man she loved.

Then it hit her like a bus. Her eyes rolled back as she recalled it. All of it. All of them. She recalled the feeling, the sensation. The indescribable pain, a broken tailbone and a raw throat from hours of screamed threats. Her knuckles felt broken and numb from gripping the bed sheets, which were soaked with her own blood, sweat, and tears. But it didn’t matter. Her husband at the time, an incompetent young man with nothing but daddy’s money and the guaranteed promise of much power, gripped her shoulder. She pulled away, and she yelled at him. Screamed at him, her voice hoarse and searing with pain as she screamed at him to leave her presence. She threatened him too, when he declared they were his as well. She began to hit him, though there wasn’t much force, she hit him and screamed at him very real threats of torture and death and so the man left her bedroom. 

She hugged them tight, cried openly now that she was alone. Her daughters, three of them, crying and wriggling in grasp as they adjusted. She professed an apology for her actions, the last thing she wanted was for them to endure any of the world’s harsh cruelty and she would never forgive herself for allowing it to be the first thing they did experience. She cooed words of comfort, her own sobs matching her daughter’s as they... as... they stopped crying. The room was utter silence except for Octavia’s own cries. She looked closer, lifted each baby girl off her chest one by one, her cries louder every time she lifted one and found her eyes glasses over and heart stopped. She screamed again. At the top of her lungs, clutching the girls to her chest tightly as she thrashed in her bed violently. 

Then she heard him, “Mom?” A small voice, and undeniably her son’s. “Emeral...” her voice was a raspy sigh. Caught in a mix of anger for showing such aggression and weakness in front of her son and an overwhelming feeling of relief and joy. She looked over and everything went away. Her son sunk to his knees, fallen from above the doorframe. Blood spurred out of open wounds from where stakes held him up.


	2. Sonata in G Minor

Octavia tugged the blanket tighter to her. It was midday but Octavia hadn’t left her room in three days. A maid had brought Emeral in on the first morning and Octavia had ordered he stay under Alustair’s close watch until she retrieved him again. 

A rag and bucket of fresh water were also left in the room and Octavia had spent an hour furiously scrubbing herself, eventually giving up when she couldn’t quite get the feeling of being dirty to wash away.

At first she’d spent most of her time sleeping. But her mind was plagued by nightmares and no real rest could be had. So she took to plotting. Would she divorce? She was sure she could torment the vile fiend more if she remained in his palace, certainly as his wife. 

So how then would she torture him? She loved his sons more than she believed he did, and they didn’t have a hand in the crime anyway. Perhaps she could hurt him by means of hurting Pheiffer. But she was sure that would come back to her and she would end up killing herself. Perhaps she would- no. No. No! NO! Nothing was fitted for Erandure. 

There was nothing she could do that wouldn’t be traced back to her and there was nothing she could steal he couldn’t replace, nothing she could deny him that he couldn’t take for himself. He was the emperor and he was untouchable.

Cloudy haze swirled in her head, her vision blurring sometimes too. She had migraines and her body ached everywhere. The bucket she’d had to clean herself with was filled with her own vomit and she’d refused any entry into her room to clean it up.

She hadn’t drunk or eaten anything either. Her body was fatigued and her mind was weak. At one point she had gotten up to stretch and three hours later found herself collapsed on the carpet, glass shattered around her from where she tried and failed to catch herself on a dresser, knocking bottles of liquor down with her. 

It was times like this she felt paralyzed. It was times like this she felt the most inspired to storm out of her room and into his, to tie him up and whip him while the courtiers watched, as he had done so many times to her. She ached to string him up, stripped of his clothes like a dog and to whisper harsh words of hatred and disgust into his ear, oh how she dreamt of the shameful scowl on his face.

It was the third day, approaching midnight and she felt that same compulsion.


End file.
